Windows to Europe

Losing the way home was losing the new socks, the loose underwear and the ones with broken elastic, the boots with the worn-out heel, the photos of the three of us and those we thought we needed close by, the letters, the favorite songs, the leftovers of stewed pasta with meat, the still firm peaches, the aspirin, the lamp needing repair, the saucer with the candle, the two books Carla never read, the spare umbrella, the three rosaries, the broken toy cars, the teddy bears, the bandages and the pill, the flashlight, the flip-flops and the towels, the three spoons, the three knives, the three forks, the three plates, the two glasses and the mug, the two pots and the microwave, the toothbrush, the ID cards, the comb, the expensive nail clipper, the fluorescent figure of Our Lady of Fátima, the lighter that came from the country, the money hidden in the bed’s tubes, the national team jersey, the transparent green vase, the mop bucket and mop, the collapsible clothesline, the old newspaper from the country, the calendar with the seasons, just in case we forgot, the old video club cards, of the supermarket, the shoe store and gas station cards, the receipts from the phone bill and supermarket, the flyer from the Indian restaurant where I would take the family as soon as I got my first paycheck, the list of contacts and addresses of the people in the country, the yellow extension cord, the pile of supermarket bags for trash, the rug with its message in a foreign language, the past, the future. We only didn’t lose the present because it was attached to our bodies.